It's Debatable
by Not Calling You A Lyre
Summary: Enjolras, a confused piano prodigy, has lived in the same house all his life. For as long as he could remember, the house right beside his has been essentially abandoned… Until Grantaire, the talented boy with a passion for art, moves in. Enjolras is lonely, Grantaire is troubled, and their windows are close enough to crawl through in the middle of the night. Debate Club!ABC
1. Chapter 1

**Hello!**

 **I'm B, (I'm Not Calling You A Lyre). This fanfic is an idea that's been floating around my head for so long, and I'm so excited to finally let it out! If you like it, think it could be better, hate it** — **please tell me! I would love any criticism that could improve my writing.**

 **There are several dialogue scenes including French in this fanfiction. I'll be sure to include a translation at the end of each chapter in English. I am fluent in both languages, so don't worry about the accuracy of the grammar** — **it's not off google translate.**

 **Thank you so much for reading!**

Chapter One

Enjolras was trying to compose—really, he was. It just wasn't coming to him. Every time he would try—like now. for example—he would find two, maybe three good chords, and then _pfft_. The keys of the piano became still and silent, and his hands would fall to his side. His inspiration would fizz out as quickly as it had come.

His professor, Monsieur Lamarque, had told him that it was because he wasn't trying hard enough; that he knew he had it in him to compose, but he was too afraid to try. He believed Enjolras thought that his best wouldn't be good enough, so he was putting up a sort of a mental block to prevent himself from actually trying.

 _Well, damn Lamarque_.

He looked around his room—his large, embarrassingly expensive, though quite simplistic, room. The focus of it, naturally, was his gorgeous grand piano. It was the first thing you'd see upon entering. Behind that, was his bed, sitting beneath a large window.

Honestly, with the exception of his piano—lovingly named "Patrie"—the window was Enjolras's favourite part of the room. It was enormous—large enough that he could crawl through, if need be. It was Enjolras's way to sneak out. Undetected, he'd slide out the window at night, and shimmy down the drain pipe of the neighbor's house.

Right, that too: the window was practically conjoined with the neighbor's windows, which bore similar dimensions.

Enjolras liked to think that if there were any who lived in that room—the house next to them had been empty for years—he'd be best friends with them. They could crawl into each other's rooms at night, to talk, to kiss… The two windows were so close, it would take only a small jump to reach the other room.

Of course though, Enjolras knew that was wishful thinking. With his luck, if someone actually did move into that room, it would be an eighty year old man, or something. Not exactly the cute teenager he was dreaming of.

Enjolras stared out that closed window now, edges frosting slightly from the cold outside, and ruffled his tangled blonde hair.

It was still fairly early the morning, though he suspected he'd be late to school anyway. Sighing, he gathered up his blank music sheets, and closed the lid of his piano. As an afterthought, he closed the curtains sharply. He checked his phone for the time—finding it to be 8 o'clock—and realized just how late for school he was going to be.

In reality, Enjolras's school— École d'Abaissés, or École ABC for short—wouldn't start until ten after nine, but he had quite the walk ahead of him. He could have a drive from many people: his father in his shiny Audi, his spoiled sister in her sleek Volvo, his own new Lexus (despite the fact that both of them were still too young to drive,) but he had said on many occasions that he would prefer to have a fork through his eye than to show up to school in any one of their ridiculous, frivolous cars. He was only slightly exaggerating.

He said it was because he was embarrassed to be driven to school by his family, and because it was an unnecessary pollution for the environment. The second part was somewhat true at least—Enjolras had marched in a save the bees protest earlier that year—but he truly couldn't care less what kids at school thought of him.

In reality, he hated having any connection to the wealthier parts of town. He hated the thought that he was in some way contributing to the issues he so passionately spoke out against.

He closed his bedroom door behind him, and walked down to his home's foyer where his shoes, books, bag, and jacket were waiting.

His small town was diverse in means of economic status: they had the very rich—the people in the big houses with nicely landscaped lawns, who had been born with doctors and lawyers as parents—and the very poor—those who could not find work, or maybe were unable to do so, who lived off of small government welfare checks split between big families. The idea that he was living a life filled with such unnecessary luxuries and indulgence while there were those who so often went without, sickened him.

 _Imagine where you'd be if you dedicated even half the amount of time you do ranting to your piano lessons,_ his father often chastised.

Sitting on the stairs before the door in the large entrance, he pulled on the black converse sneakers and slung a backpack heavy with books over his shoulder.

His immediate family—though "immediate" was the only kind of family Enjolras had—consisted of his father and sister. Their father, Jean Valjean, had adopted both him and his sister Cosette when they were very young. Though younger, she had been first; Enjolras had been brought into the family one year later, when Cosette was nine and Enjolras was twelve.

All three of them were French citizens—and proudly so. Jean had thought it necessary however that both Enjolras and Cosette learn English, and as such, all three were fluent in two languages. It wasn't uncommon for them to switch fluidly in the middle of conversations between French and English, to the dismay of any house guests who might be around.

Initially, following his adoption, Enjolras had argued learning English was unpatriotic; even from a young age, he was fiercely loyal to his country. Jean explained however, that as English was the most spoken language around the world, it would allow international travel.

 _Travel is freedom, mon cher_ , he would say with dark eyes. _And we are nothing without our freedom_.

So he grumbled, but Enjolras learned English. He couldn't imagine ever wanting to leave his country, but his adoptive father was persistent of its importance.

"À ce soir, je serais ici pour le souper." Enjolras called out as he laced his shoes, his words echoing in the big house.

His father walked to the top of the stairs and smiled warmly.

"Et oui mon cher," the deep, heavily accented voice came down from the stairs above. "Prends soin."

His younger sister, Cosette, appeared next to their father, and bounced down to where Enjolras, sat in a whirl of pink skirts and blonde hair.

"Love you, Enjy. Dis bonjour à Marius if you seem him today for me?" She asked, hopefully.

" _Bon Dieu_ Cosette for the last time I'm not setting my little sister up with a kid she barely knows from a different school." He rolled his eyes, but smiled at her anyway. He opened the heavy wooden door, hugged both his father and sister, exchanged one more "je t'aime" and with a "bonne journée," he was off.

Enjolras's jacket lay forgotten back at the house.

—

School passed as it normally did for Enjolras: a long day, strenuous, and quite boring. Overall, not quite what he'd call "educational." It wasn't that he didn't try in class, or didn't understand the material—quite the opposite. In fact, he had very good grades. The problem was, it was unchallenging, and he found his classmates to be uninteresting and ignorant on most topics. The only classes he truly enjoyed were his high honors classes: English and French Language Arts, and History.

History was an easy one: he was good with dates and names, and beyond fascinated by politics. The problem he found with this was that he knew all that he was being taught had censored, and probably slightly rewritten, to fit the agenda of his government. Thus, upon learning something in that class, he would do research on it when he got home, fact checking and source reading. This lead to a pretty thorough understanding of the topics, as well as numerous detentions for correcting the teacher.

English and French Language Arts though, were much more free. There, he could read and learn about different ideas, opinions, and perspectives, and could write his own too. There, nothing could be censored, because everything was fair game. It was a great relief to be able to speak freely about anything that might be bothering him, whenever he picked up a pen and paper.

Unfortunately though, without those subjects, Enjolras was thoroughly bored during the school year.

He knew his classmates (all 900 of them,) were bored at school too—but from a lack of drama in the student body, instead of the level of difficulty of the homework. They practically fed off of scandals and newcomers; they were teenagers, afterall.

The last big scandal, with the exception of one girl getting pregnant in eighth grade, had been Enjolras's arrival. But the excitement from that had long since worn off, being nearly four years ago.

He remembered now what it was like, those rough first few weeks at École ABC. People claiming to want friendship had flocked to him: the pretty, popular girls, the big, athletic boys. He had known though, that once his novelty wore off—and it had—they would leave him alone. Except, they kind of didn't.

His father often called him a natural leader. Okay sure, maybe he was charismatic, and maybe he was good with people. That didn't mean he had to like them.

His charisma had hooked the kids in—suddenly, he wasn't surrounded by people because he was new; he was surrounded by people because they thought he was "cool."

His father called him something else, though, too: opinionated.

Imagine what happens in this situation: a boy is suddenly the most popular kid in school. He's surrounded by friends, invited to all the parties, has a seat saved for him at every lunch. Some people are close to him because they're trying to claw their way up the social totem pole, some because they're trying to get connected, and very, _very_ few because they actually liked him.

All those people tolerate a few oddities—snarkily correcting teachers in class, refusing to wear his uniform to code, passion for politics. There were some things though, that popularity simply could not accept.

Remember that girl, the pregnant one? In eighth grade, after Enjolras had held his social status for almost a year, she had announced her pregnancy. It created quite the stir in the school.

"I bet she wanted it…"

"Who's the daddy, 'Ponine?"

"I can't believe she did that…"

"Well, look at how she was _raised…_ "

"God, what a sl-"

Comments like the latter would receive one hearty fist to the jaw. His adoptive father had taught him to do what was right, not what was easy. And easy, it was not.

In truth, the schoolmates enjoyed tormenting Éponine. Lord knew she was tough, but day in day out mockery, shaming, even some beatings…

Enjolras wouldn't stand for it.

But his popular "friends" wouldn't stand for what he was doing, either.

Slowly, Enjolras fell from power. He was included in less and less conversations, invited to parties infrequently, and began to sit by himself at lunch.

And God, he was _so_ happy.

He quickly discovered though, as he became less popular, he gained more friends.

Enjolras found there were quite a few kids who had agreed with him—who thought the way Éponine as being treated was awful and who resented the staff for doing nothing about her torment. Who thought that, _yeah_ , their principal Monsieur Louis-Phillipe _was_ being extraordinarily homophobic for not allowing the openly queer Courfeyrac and Combeferre to go to dances together; transphobic for forcing Feuilly to use the women's bathrooms; sexist for sending girls home on for showing shoulders in their uniforms.

Their ideas, beliefs, opinions clashed dramatically with the conservative values of the rest of the school. The way they found to combat any conflict was to band together—safety in numbers, and all that.

In total, their little group consisted of twelve students.

There were the couples, the snarky Courfeyrac who was kind only to his handsome, philosophical Combeferre; and the polyamorous Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta. The latter had met during the group's first meeting—Joly had been talking animatedly about his plans for med school to anyone he could find, which happened to be Bossuet and Musichetta, dancing with each other in the corner. Meanwhile, Combeferre and Courfeyrac had been a thing since the sixth grade.

Then there was Puerto Rican-French Bahorel, whose father was making him attend a law school when he graduated. He could often be found wearing a DIY t-shirt that read: "never a lawyer," and losing Pokemon Go battles to the eleven year old Gavroche.

Gavroche was a member by association, being the little brother of sisters Éponine and Azelma. Also, ever since Gavroche had slung a sour cream covered baked potato at Monsieur Louis-Phillipe for calling Azelma a racial slur when she was dancing in the cafeteria last year, he had pretty much been considered a god.

There were also best friends Jehan and Feuilly. Jehan was a transboy, writer of terrible poetry, and shopper supreme—the man's closet could give fashionistas a run for their money. Feuilly was genderfluid, and a trans activist with a passion for... fan making, of all things. After being orphaned at a young age, Feuilly had immigrated from Poland to France, to live with his current foster family. The two related to each other intensely, not only because they were the only two trans students at École ABC, but also because of their love for terrible puns. Together, they were a whirl of fans, poetry, high heels, Polish flags, and truly awful internet jokes.

So yes, Enjolras's little group were close friends, and huge nerds. Enough so that they decided to name themselves. Gavroche had come up with it. Actually, he had originally come up with an entire list of names, starting with "Elephant Squad," and ending with "'Friends,' But Less Cool." Somewhere in between though, one name had echoed in the back of Enjolras's mind: Les Amis d'ABC—The Friends of ABC.

Obviously, it had stuck, and now that's what they were, to the absolute glee of their mocking classmates. The friends tried to stick together, but when they couldn't all hang out during school, they met once a week. It was Enjolras's idea—Courfeyrac would tease, it always was. They met under the guise of debate club, something he knew no one else in the school would join—and, to be honest, debate was something they often did.

Those meetings, those Wednesday afternoons were heavenly. They were such a diverse, interesting, educated group that Enjolras found being around them easier than breathing.

He would enter the room, see one of them—probably Musichetta—had brought drinks and snacks, and watch with a smile on his face as Bossuet and Joly playfully wrestled for the last cookies, Combeferre nearby with a hand on his neck worriedly murmuring "oh my," while Courfeyrac tried to distract him with kisses. Bossuet would be sitting where the wi-fi signal was best, snapchatting the entire thing. Éponine, Azelma and Gavroche would often bring along their cat, as Gavroche insisted he was their mascot. In the corner next to the door, Feuilly and Jehan would sit giggling at their phones. Enjolras would then walk inside, and call to order the meeting with easy charm. Each member would report anything they'd liked the group to know.

On one memorable occasion, Éponine had taken Enjolras's place at the podium and began ranting about Patron-Minette; their school's local crime gang. One of the members had been the one on get Éponine pregnant, and so even the mention of their name elicited boos and groans from the friends. Half an hour later, Azelma had gently wrestled Éponine away from the podium.

For this reason, and also because of Courfeyrac's tendency to release a long string of curses that would show up a sailor each time news about a certain American Republican candidate reached him, there were always a spare set of earmuffs around for little Gavroche during their meetings.

The worked perfectly with each other, though; they balanced each other out. Together, their group were a perfect harmony—they were major chords.

Enjolras didn't realize he was smiling thinking of them until he was shaken out of his reverie by a timid voice asking:

"Lasagne, monsieur Enjolras?"

It was the lunch lady, Madame Magliore, asking what he wanted for lunch.

 _Lord_ , he wondered, _how long have I been standing here_?

Judging from the exasperated sighs of the impatient teenagers in line behind him, he would guess long enough.

Making the quick decision to take the lasagna, he nodded assent to the smiling lunch lady, and left the line.

He sat down at the nearest empty table, not seeing any of his friends seated already in the cafeteria.

As he muched absentmindedly on a green apple, he began to think again about their meetings again. What was today, Tuesday? That meant the meeting was tomorrow. He should probably bring muffins or something. 'Chetta had supplied snacks the past month—

"So Enjy. How was your morning?" Courfeyrac asked, interrupting Enjolras's thoughts as he slid in the seat across from him. His voice was his usual monotone sarcasm, which Enjolras now knew was about the least snarky tone Courfeyrac could manage.

He was about to answer, when he noticed his friend's attention. Strangely, his eyes were raking the room. Normally, he would hold eye contact for their entire conversation. Honestly, sometimes Courf's eye contact could be unsettling.

Not today, though. His friend was scanning the cafeteria's students behind him.

He sighed.

"What is it you're looking for?" Enjolras asked, ignoring Courfeyrac's first question. He glanced over his shoulder, but saw nothing suspicious.

"Hmm?" Courfeyrac murmured, bringing his attention back to his friend. "Oh. Haven't you heard? Apparently there's a new kid in today—in our grade, too."

Enjolras grimaced in sympathy.

"Poor bugger. Why's he moving here in eleventh grade? That'll make it so much worse." He resumed eating his apple, and began picking at his now-cold lasagna.

Courfeyrac's neck remained stretched as he continued to survey the cafeteria.

This time, it was his friend who sighed.

"Okay, Courf, honestly," Enjolras said, "what's the big deal? It's just another kid."

The boy's eyes shot down to meet his own.

"Enjy, are you joking? This new kid—he's American. _He doesn't even speak French_."

Enjolras whistled, "Patron-Minette's going to eat him alive."

"Un moment de silence pour les brâves esprits conquitent," Courfeyrac smiled grimly. Enjolras nodded his head in agreement.

They ate for a moment of two more—well, Enjolras ate more, Courfeyrac continued his search for the mysterious American—when suddenly Courf's eyes lit up.

"Enjy, right there, there he is!"

The boy practically screamed it, and Enjolras hushed him as heads turned in their direction.

"What?" Enjolras hissed.

"I found him, he's right there at table three! He's the one eating the fruit cup—and Holy _Lord_ Enjolras he's cute. I know you aren't queer and everything, but hot _damn_."

Enjolras rolled his eyes, but tried to look subtly behind him to where Courfeyrac was excitedly pointing.

Okay, _wow._

The boy, looking to be Enjolras's own age, was sitting down, a spoon hanging out of his faintly smiling mouth. He was sitting at a full table, but he seemed more alone than he would be in an empty room. Not because he looked sad—not at all. He just looked kind of bored, and uninterested.

He had curly black hair, and seemed to be quite tall, even sitting down. He was wearing a green cargo shirt and torn jeans that Enjolras could tell even from where he was, were covered in colourful paint splatters.

The people at his table continued to try to engage him in conversation, but he seemed to be answering them with vague, one worded replies.

He was so _beautiful_. Enjolras didn't even think men had the _power_ to be that gorgeous.

In a way one might appreciate a painting, or a nicely sung tune, though. Not like—not like _that_. It wasn't like he was queer or anything.

Enjolras realized he had been staring for quite some time, and quickly turned back to his food, shoving a bite of lasagna into his mouth.

He looked up at Courfeyrac to see a smug, knowing smile.

"What?" He asked him indignantly through a mouthful of cold pasta.

"Oh," he replied, that smirk still plastered onto his face. "Nothing. Hey, have you seen 'Ferre around lately? He didn't answer my texts this morning, and I didn't see him in class."

"No, but he's probably in the library," Enjolras smiled, grateful for the subject change. "Studying for something." Combeferre volunteered in their school's library. It was a perfect fit, as he spent much of his time there anyway.

"Yeah, you're right. Maybe I can surprise him again," Courfeyrac said with a grin, and a wiggle of his eyebrows.

Enjolras groaned. "Don't get caught again, please. You guys were suspended from debate club for a month last time."

"Listen—it was totally worth it, we both agreed." He laughed. "Hey, your American's on the move, by the way."

Enjolras whipped around to see the boy stand up, and walk out the cafeteria with two other students.

"Alright, yeah. I'm gonna go…" He trailed off. "Um, I'm gonna go see if I can… If I can talk to him, okay?" He stood up, and emptied his tray into the nearest trash can.

"Okay, see you, Enjy."

"Yeah, later. Wait, Courf?" Enjolras called. The other boy turned around. "He's not 'my' anything."

"Sure, Enjolras. See you later."

—

Enjolras followed the three boys. He still wasn't sure who the American's companions were, as they had their backs to him in the cafeteria, but he assumed they were just two overly friendly freshmen, trying to show the cool older kid around the school.

He wasn't sure why he was sneaking around so much, but he kept behind them silently, at one point ducking into a washroom when he thought he was getting too close.

After about five minutes of this, the group stopped in front of a row of twelfth year lockers. He was confused, when one of the boys opened a locker, and produced from it a small flask. The boy turned slightly, and Enjolras could see his face.

 _Damn_.

It was Montparnasse, one of the members of the much detested crime gang, Patron-Minette, with a snake's smile on his face. And beside him, it had to be… Yes, it was Claquesous, Montparnasse's partner. As far as Enjolras knew, none of Patron-Minette could speak English—very few students at their school could, and certainly not well enough to easily converse.

But that didn't matter, because they seemed to have communicated efficiently enough "illegal underage drinking" in English, and the American apparently understood that. He accepted the flask, and shoved a small wad of bills in Montparnasse's open palm in return. He thanked them, and sauntered in the direction of the men's washroom, presumably to drink his alcohol without getting caught by any nosy teachers.

Right into his hiding spot.

Enjolras panicked, and quickly hid in one of the stalls before the boy could see him. He locked the door behind him.

In Les Amis, they had a strict rule: no drugs, and no drinks. The reason wasn't any of the regular, conservative excuses—not because they thought it "unholy," or "shameful," or anything like that.

As previously stated, the group was quite diverse: they consisted of a wide variety of ethnicities and nationalities, economic statuses, genders, sexualities, political ideologies—in short, they were _different_. As it was, many of them faced enough discrimination and hate, simply for existing.

In fact, the other day Musichetta—a black, queer girl—had been reading a book the administration had deemed "immoral," and "inappropriate," and had sent her home for the rest of the day. The book was "The Colour Purple," by Alice Walker, and Chetta had borrowed it from the school library. The friends knew that to give their persecutors something to actually complain about—using illegal substances, for example—would essentially be looking for trouble.

Another reason they constructed the rule: there was absolutely no need for any of them to develop an addiction, or a dependency upon drugs or alcohol. All of the friends—every, single one of them—had big plans for their futures.

Enjolras, for example, wanted to go into politics, cure the corruption from the inside out. (The group teased that he just wanted to be the French, teenage Bernie Sanders.) (They were right.)

Jehan and Feuilly planned travel across Europe when they graduated, get degrees in fashion, and start a business.

Combeferre wanted to be a Psychologist, and Courfeyrac was completely content to become something of stay-at-home Dad for all their foster children. (Yes, everyone thought it was strange they were planning children already, but it was pretty evident to anyone that met Courf and Ferre were as close to soul mates as you can get.)

Musichetta and Bahourel, who both had immigrated when they were very young—Chetta from Kenya, Africa, and Bahourel from Syria— and were both going to travel to their birthplace to visit their families and old homes, before meeting up again with Joly as he went through medical school.

The sisters, Éponine and Azelma, were highly interested in activism. As they were both queer, poor, Asian women, they were heavily affected by social culture, and wanted to have a hand in influencing it. Maybe by creating an educational resource or clinic, by protesting, by contributing to media… or maybe all three.

(Gavroche said he wanted to be a professional bank robber, but he was eleven so they hoped he was just joking. Or that he would change his mind.)

Regardless of whether Gavroche decided to become a thief or not, all of the friends had ambitious plans for themselves. They weren't about to let some stupid decision they make as teenagers ruin that for them in the future.

And then there was this stupid, _stupid_ American idiot.

Did he think on his first day he could just walk in here and stir up this much trouble? Trouble with Patron-Minette, nonetheless. Enjolras worked hard to try to clean up this school; when he left next year, he wanted it to be safe for the ones he was leaving behind.

To think he was going to ask him to join them! This boy, was an idiot. _Enjolras_ , was an idiot. It was this kid's first damn day, and he messed it up. Apparently, all it would take to befriend Enjolras was a pretty face. (And he could say that, because he was secure enough in his sexuality. You can appreciate someone for their aesthetic without any feelings attached, right?)

The more he thought about this, the more riled up Enjolras would get. Drinking, in _his_ school, around _his_ friends…

Outside his hiding place, he could hear that conspicuous sloshing of the liquid as it made its way down the boy's throat; could hear the loud "pop!" his lips made when they slid off the flask.

That was it.

He balled his hands in tight fists, unlocked the stall door, and barged through.

"Just who in the _hell_ do you think you are?" Enjolras demanded angrily.

The boy, leaning against the wall opposite him, seemed stunned. He was silent, eyes wide, as he took in Enjolras from head to toe. His nearly empty flask sat perched on his lips. He asked silent questions— _How_ _long have you been there?_ _Are you going to rat me out_?—and was answered only in long glares.

Slowly, the American dropped the alcohol, and extended it out to Enjolras. A small smile played on his lips.

"If you wanted some that badly, you could have just asked."

Enjolras didn't realize he had swung until his fist connected to the boy's jaw—until the stranger's own fist was upon his left eye.

It sounded like what happens when he would strike a chord wrong on his piano—an ugly clang, a gross mistake.

 _Yeah_ , he thought. _This'll bruise_.

" **À ce soir, je serais ici pour le souper!" = I'll see you tonight, I'll be here for supper!**

" **Et oui mon cher, prends soin." = Yes my dear, take care.**

" _ **Bon Dieu**_ " **= Good God.**

" **Je t'aime" = I love you (guys).**

" **Bonne journée. = Have a good day.**

" **Un moment de silence pour les brâves esprits conquitent." = A moment of silence for the brave, fallen souls.**

 **I'm still working on a solid schedule, but I hope to have one chapter up every week or so.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **\- B**


	2. Chapter 2

**Another chapter! Again, if you need it, the English translations for any French dialogue will be included at the bottom.**

 **Happy reading!**

Chapter Two

"So, boys, you understand why this punishment is necessary?" A thick French accent asked. Their school's principal, Monsieur Louis-Phillipe, peered over his spectacles at the two with a mockinging smile. Though it was obvious he tried to convey intimidation and authority with each word, his speech's power was slightly diminished by his need to speak in broken English for Grantaire's comprehension.

"You both have been…" He paused, searching for the word. "Enjolras, c'est quoi le mot Anglais pour 'mal intenionné?'"

"Badly behaved," he supplied quietly.

"Oui, merci. You have both been 'badly behaved.'" He paused to see their reactions, which were both unimpressed and bored, and then continued.

"Physical violence and illegal substances are very serious issues. I, personally, think I'm being too lenient, suspending you two only for as long as you're getting. Behaviour like this can create a negative learning environment for the students—and there's nothing École d'Abaissés prides itself more in than a clean, safe, and happy space for staff and students alike."

Enjolras snorted, and conspicuously tried to cover it up with a cough. His principal glared at him.

"Have something you would like to add, Monsieur Enjolras?" He demanded. He turned, and angrily asked: "Or you, for that matter, Monsieur Grantaire?"

Both of them shook their heads, the boy next to him—Grantaire?—doing so with a loud, obnoxious yawn. It was quite obvious that Grantaire, as Courfeyrac would say, didn't give a damn.

"Very well," he said, looking as though he wished he could slap one of them. "Remember to give your parents or guardians those slips—I'll be calling home to check." He looked down at his desk and shuffled some papers. "On your way then. Enjolras, je te verrais lundi prochaîne. Grantaire, I'll be seeing you next Wednesday."

"Au revoir, Monsieur le Directeur," Enjolras muttered.

Grantaire pushed himself out of his chair and walked out the office without a word.

—

"I'm serious, new kid, _stop following me_."

Enjolras was getting annoyed. They had been walking for almost twenty minutes now, and the American boy was still insisting he lived this way. Well, the joke was on him—this far into the walk, the only two houses were his own, and the abandoned house next to him.

Obviously he lived in neither, so he had to be messing with him.

 _Whatever_ , he thought, _he'll give it up soon enough_.

But he didn't. Another ten minutes passed, leaving only ten more, and the kid was _still_ walking behind him. _When_ was _he planning on ending his little joke_?

As he often did, he texted Courf, updating him on Enjolras' current situation. He knew he'd appreciate any news or gossip about the new boy. As expected, within sixty seconds of sending his message, he received an enthusiastic response, with strict orders to keep him up to date on any going ons. Apparently, he was in the middle of gym class now—Enjolras truly didn't know how Courfeyrac was always able to answer his phone.

Enjolras smiled at his friend, and glanced over his shoulder to see if the kid was still following him. An unsurprising _yes_.

The boy walking behind him was dressed simply, in a plain black t-shirt and those paint-splattered jeans, his curly black hair somewhat tucked up in a purple beanie. He was looking down, as if studying each step before he took it, and had two earbuds in his covered ears.

His dark olive skin betrayed no signs of tiredness—strange, as even Enjolras, who walked this route twice a day, was perspiring. He must be quite fit.

There was also a slight bulge in his front left pocket—that damned flask. He couldn't believe Monsieur Louis-Phillipe had allowed him to keep it.

The other boy looked bored, almost weary, but still somehow had that kind of a twinkle—that sarcastic look in his eyes, that easy laugh that seemed merely hidden from view, like the sun that was only temporarily covered with dark clouds—even when he seemed as if he shouldn't. Even when Enjolras had punched him; even when he was being punished in their principal's office.

Whatever, that didn't change anything. He was trying to be funny now, Enjolras assumed, and it seemed he had a weird, annoying sense of humour.

Enjolras's house was now in sight. They both walked up to the front porch, and Enjolras grinned knowing he had won this little game the boy was playing.

"Okay, you had your fun. Right here?" He motioned towards his house, "Is where I live. Right _there_ ," he pointed to the abandoned neighboring home, "is the last house on the street for about ten minutes." Pausing slightly, because let no one waste Monsieur Lamarque's teachings of showmanship, he said: "Your joke's over. Just go home, new kid."

The boy looked at him for a second, utterly exasperated. Enjolras met his gaze.

He turned on his heel, and walked in the direction Enjolras still pointed to—to the abandoned house. He hopped up the steps to the porch, and opened the door.

Grantaire raised his eyebrows at him, and spread apart his arms, as if trying to say, _yeah, I_ am _home. You messed up_ .

"Guess I'll see you around then, _neighbor_." He said with a dry smirk. The door closed behind him with a slam.

Enjolras' jaw dropped. And closed. And dropped again.

Feeling disoriented, and inexplicably fish-like, he walked into his own home.

He slowly took off his shoes, slid his backpack off, and hung up the jacket he had forgotten that morning in the closet. His sister was still at school this time of the day, and his father probably wouldn't be back from work until much later.

As he made his way to his room, a thought took place.

 _What room is the boy sleeping in_? _Surely he wouldn't be—Oh no_.

Because that would be just his luck, wouldn't it? _God_.

Running, now, into his room, he slammed the door behind him. Enjolras rushed over to the large window over his bed. He flung open the curtains and pulled up the glass cover, and leaned out a bit to get a better look. The neighboring window, not three feet away from his own, was wide open.

Inside was the new boy. He sat on the floor facing Enjolra, with a look of obvious disbelief on his face. In one hand was a pencil, and what looked to be sketchbook in the other.

They were both silent as they stared at each other.

"Long time no see, neighbor." He said. "Couldn't stay away for more than ten minutes?"

Enjolras didn't say anything, and knew his already strong resemblance to a fish was growing by the second, the way his mouth was flapping about.

The kid, seeing he obviously wasn't going to get a strong reaction that way, continued. "My name's Grantaire, by the way. You keep calling me 'New Kid.'"

The kid honestly lived here?! Oh God, _the kid really lived here_. The harsh news was still settling in, and Enjolras felt as if he were processing this information for the first time over and over again.

"What-why are you—" Enjolras sputtered.

"This house was my Grandma's. She died a couple years ago." He said by way of explanation, arching one eyebrow in defiance.

That didn't quite make sense—If Grantaire's family really did inherit that house, why didn't they move in years ago? It had been abandoned for a long time. Also, how the hell did Enjolras not know they were moving in? It was the only other house for a while, he should have known everything about it!

He didn't push and ask those questions, though. Not about his dead Grandma, not about why he had felt the need to drink, not about Patron-Minette, not _why do you live on my street, and in this room of all places_. No. Instead, Enjolras, wanting to elicit the same kind of reaction from the new kid he was having,so brashly blurted:

"T-thanks for getting me suspended!"

Grantaire's mouth fell open in indignant shock.

"I tell you my Grandmother's dead, and all you want to do is blame me for something I didn't do?" He set down his sketchbook and pencil and stood up to see Enjolras better. "Besides, _I_ didn't get us suspended, and you know it."

Enjolras's blood suddenly boiled.

"How are you trying to blame this on me?! I wasn't the one drinking in the men's bathroom!"

He laughed. "I wouldn't have gotten caught if you hadn't butted in and you know it! My brother's going to _kill_ me!"

His brother?

"Well what was I supposed to do, let you drink?"

" _Yes_!"

"You made a deal with Patron-Minette, you were going to get busted anyway!"

"I don't know what the _hell_ that's supposed to mean—"

"It means you were being an absolute idiot, and that you were going to get yourself in a hell of a lot more trouble than we are now!"

"I don't know who you think you are, trying to tell me how to live my life, but you can stick your advice right up your—"

"Oh yeah, that's mature—"

"You _punched_ me within the first _ten seconds_ of meeting me!"

Both of the boys were breathing hard now, chests rising and falling with their fists tightened at their sides.

Very suddenly, Grantaire seemed to calm down, and gave a lazy, mocking smile.

"Well then, if you saved me from the _unmatchable_ horrors of 'Patron-Minette,'" he snarked, "then I suppose I should be grateful to you, O Good and Kind One. Thank you _so much_ for leading me from harm's way." He bowed, his voice a mean, sarcastic bite. "I am _forever_ in your debt."

With that, Grantaire strode up to his window and slammed it shut. Just before flinging the curtains back over though, he gave Enjolras a vulgar gesture.

"Happy suspension, _neighbor_." He mouthed.

And then he was gone.

Enjolras, still leaning out of his own window, sat, seething.

How _dare_ he! This whole thing was _his_ fault, not Enjolras', and now they were both _suspended_ , and his father was going to be so disappointed, not because he was suspended, but because he hurt someone, and _to think he was going to ask him to join Debate Club_.

Finally, after nearly three minutes spent just cursing that new boy, Enjolras scrambled back inside his room.

Fine—that was fine. If Grantaire wanted to spend his time being an idiot, associating with Patron-Minette, and drinking, then that was his choice. He could do what he wanted—Enjolras just refused, though, to let him to hurt his friends.

So, where did that leave them? They were both suspended for the next little while, most likely on house arrest. Would they just ignore each other?

And what about when they got back to school? They were in the same year, so they were almost guaranteed to have _some_ classes together. Would they avoid eye contact, pray they weren't put together for group projects?

It wouldn't work, and Enjolras knew it. One or both of them would have to apologize, so they could both just move on from this whole ridiculous situation.

It wouldn't be him, though.

And through that window, behind those curtains, Grantaire was thinking the same thing.

—

True to their mental vows, neither Enjolras nor Grantaire attempted to communicate with the other—through their nearly conjoined windows, or otherwise. That is, until Sunday. It had been five days since they were both suspended, and Enjolras was going back to school tomorrow.

They were both restless, and both very, _very_ bored. As Enjolras had predicted, his father had been angry and disappointed at his suspension, and had issued a house arrest. As he didn't see him leave his house at any point, Enjolras assumed Grantaire had a similar deal with his family.

It was that night, though—that cold, dark Sunday night—that everything changed.

Enjolras had been downstairs, having yet another tense dinner with his family. After they had finished eating in uncomfortable silence, Enjolras had asked to be excused, which his father answered with a curt nod. His sister had let out a small sigh.

He had taken the steps up to his room two at a time, murmuring something about getting ready for school the next day. He ruffled his hair as he turned down the hallway to his room—a sure sign of stress. He wondered what it said about him that ruffling his hair also happened to be his constant habit. Enjolras flung open his bedroom doors—

and stopped dead.

His room looked normal—his piano, _Patrie_ , still stood in all her glory, his bed and bedsheets were just as undisturbed as he had left them this morning, and the stacks of books and sheet music were still in their regular messy piles. What was different, though, was the boy seated in the middle of his room.

Grantaire sat with a sketchbook, larger than the last one Enjolras had seen him with, his hands stained with the charcoals he was using. (Was it still called drawing when the artist used charcoal? Or was it called shading? Enjolras wasn't sure.)

He wasn't all that sure how to react—angry, indignant, happy?—until he saw what it was Grantaire was drawing. (Or shading. Whatever.)

 _Patrie_.

And God, Grantaire was good. Like, _really_ good.

He captured her perfectly. The way her lid was held with such elegance and quiet power, how the contrast of shadows seemed more intense when cast by her, the light brighter when it reflected off her glossy surface and beautiful keys.

Grantaire still hadn't noticed Enjolras was standing in the doorway—or maybe he just didn't care.

Still facing away from him, still gently shading his drawing, he said distractedly, "Sorry, the light was hitting your piano perfectly." He paused his work, and twisted to see him. "You don't mind, do you?" He asked it like a question, but his tone said he wasn't going to move even if he wanted him to.

Yeah, Grantaire just didn't care.

Still shocked, Enjolras sputtered a moment, and struggled to come up with a response.

"I'm—I mean, you're in my—How did you—"

He turned back and resumed drawing. "Listen, our windows are less than a meter away from each other." He smirked into his sketchbook, "—and you always keep yours unlocked."

Enjolras didn't want to think too much about that; he really didn't want to know if this was Grantaire's first time in his room or not.

So instead, he thought _damn my inability to hold a grudge_ , and sat down next to him.

"Look, I'm really sorry about what happened at school. It—it wasn't my place to try to correct you, or whatever." It all rushed out at once, and he sucked in a conspicuous breath. "Oh, and that bit about thinking you were stalking me. That was rude too."

No answer.

Timidly, Enjolras asked, "how's your jaw?"

The room was filled with the sounds of the charcoal strokes made by the boy sitting next to him. Enjolras thought he wasn't going to answer, but then he evenly said, "you're right."

Enjolras laughed nervously. "About what?"

"It wasn't your place." He replied simply. He kept sketching.

"Listen, I really _am_ sorry for my behaviour in the bathroom—"

Grantaire audibly rolled his eyes. "—But you weren't the only guilty party. I _was_ drinking, and _yeah_ , I probably would have gotten caught. Yes, you did punch me, but I punched you back—harder."

He rubbed under his left eyebrow in rueful reminiscence. Enjolras wasn't exactly sure what to say in response to that.

"So then...Are we good?" He held out his hand, hopefully.

Grantaire finally looked up at him, then put down his charcoal.

Their hands connected, and shook. Grantaire's grip was strong—strong and warm.

"Yeah, we're good." He paused, and picked up his charcoal again. "Have fun trying to get that off your hand, by the way."

Enjolras groaned, and quickly wiped his black-stained palm on his jeans. They both laughed, albeit somewhat jerkily.

They sat in relative silence for a moment or two more, relishing the sense of relief that always comes after relieving yourself of a burden. Then, Grantaire turned to face Enjolras.

"You play?" He asked, motioning towards the grand piano in the center of his room.

"Oh—um yeah. Yeah I do."

"Are you any good?" Grantaire's right eyebrow quirked up, a small smile beginning to play upon his lips.

Enjolras thought about that for a minute. "I—I don't think so. I mean, I've been in lessons since I was twelve, but... What do you consider decent?"

"I consider anyone who can play that classical song—Furry Lis?—to be well on their way to a successful concert pianist career."

Enjolras laughed, still with that obviously nervous tinge though. "Not to sound arrogant, but this might bl—might blow your mind."

Grantaire clapped his back. "Let's hear it then."

 _Okay_ , he thought to himself, _il n'y a pas de problème avec cette proposition_.

Enjolras pushed himself off the floor, and sat down on the piano stool. He shuffled a couple papers around, finding the music he was looking for. Grantaire, still on the floor, had picked up his sketchbook again, and seemed to be flipping to a new page.

Just as he looked down, Grantaire caught his eye. "Well?"

 _Right_ , Enjolras thought. _Get on with it_.

He cleared his throat, and announced, "Primavera, Ludovico Einaudi." His voice broke slightly on the "ein."

He readied himself, then lightly grazed the keys of his _Patrie._

 _Un, deux, trois, quatre_ —

And then he played.

The piece started off slowly, with only a treble staff for the first few bars, leaving his left hand to hang awkwardly at his side. Then, his favourite part. The bass clef was written in, and his fingers danced accordingly. The music rose and fell, swelling and sloping—a deep tenor wove in between the high notes, filling in the gaps and supporting where it could not do so alone. Suddenly, the tenor was the star, and a deep and powerful strum rumbled through the room, his fingers stretching and tumbling.

He played for what seemed both like forever and only a breath. He hardly recognized he wasn't reading the sheet music—he played this piece often enough to have it memorized, and if he would forget a part, he'd improvise his own chords and notes.

Vaguely, he recognized Grantaire—out of the corner of his eye, he could see him smiling to himself as he drew. Drew him.

Grantaire was drawing him.

He wasn't sure why, but for whatever reason, that solidified the intimacy of this moment for Enjolras. His breath caught in his throat slightly, but his playing never faltered.

Enjolras didn't play for anyone—not like this. Sometimes for his family, like the one year he recorded himself playing songs from the soundtracks of some of Cosette's favourite musicals and gave it to her for her birthday, but never like this. Not for a complete and utter stranger he knew nearly nothing about.

He wasn't sure, but he thought it was a similar feeling for most artists—that their art was an extension of themselves, an essential yet still personal part of their very souls.

Their art was their emotions, their escape, their loves...

Their art were their lives.

And Enjolras was playing for Grantaire, and Grantaire was drawing for Enjolras.

Finally, _finally_ , "Primavera" had her last note, and Grantaire's drawing had its last careful stroke.

Both boys stood still, both in slight awe of what had just occurred. Enjolras was breathing considerably harder than he'd like to admit. He looked down at his hands, resting lightly over the keys, and then over his shoulder to the artist on the floor.

Grantaire broke the silence as their eyes met. He laughed loudly, and his smile reached up to his bright eyes. "Just so you know, you can consider my mind blown."

Enjolras let out a breathless laugh.

"Well, you had to hear me play, so… Do I get to see your drawing, Grantaire?" He realized how awkward and clunky his name sounded on his lips, and wished he could take it back.

"First of all, I _got_ to hear you play," Grantaire corrected. Smiling, he held his work out to him in answer. "I'll be needing it back though."

"Yes, yes of course…" He murmured as he took it into his hands.

Enjolras studied the drawing. It was beautifully done, really. Shaded in careful, elegant, precise strokes—art was so obviously not just a hobby of Grantaire; it was his passion.

And so, he had passionately drawn Enjolras.

Or, his feet, at least.

His _feet_?!

But there they were, two black sock laden feet, one pressing gently down upon the damper pedal, the other hovering midair, as if waiting a cue. The piano's own legs, and its stool were also depicted, which gave Enjolras the impression he was looking at a part of something—at just one facet of the bigger picture.

Or, maybe it was just a drawing of feet.

Enjolras tried not to think too much into that.

"It's… interesting." He managed. He couldn't deny it wasn't beautiful, no one could. What Enjolras held in his hands was pure and simple _art_. He didn't need to understand it, he just needed to feel it.

Feel it, like how Grantaire had hopefully felt his piano.

"Well, I appreciate your overwhelming feedback," he laughed lightly as he took back the drawing. He rolled it neatly into a cylinder and said, "but I hope I was a better audience than you are. Your playing is beautiful. Better than that. It was…" He trailed off.

"You may have just raised my standards for 'decent,' at least."

"Well, I mean, if I've accomplished _that…_ " Grantaire laughed louder this time, and Enjolras grinned in return.

Enjolras was more than content to back and forth with this boy for as long as he could, but it was beginning to grow silent again. He wasn't really sure what he was to do now—they still hadn't really discussed what Grantaire was doing in his room.

 _Or, more importantly_ , he thought, _what the boundaries are for us_. Not that he would really mind if Grantaire were to come back another night. It felt kind of nice to have someone to do this with, outside of Debate Club.

A friend, he realized. It was a close friend he missed, despite never truly having one in the first place.

It was hard being the leader of a group, Enjolras would admitted occasionally to himself. He had to make decisions, had to break news, and subconsciously, had to take on an intense feeling of responsibility of every member of the group. Combeferre might have been the mother hen of the friends, but Enjolras took care of them in his own way.

His way, it seemed, was punching people he irrationally deemed a threat. In the jaw.

Emphasis on _irrationally_.

And besides, they all had one another. He loved them all, but… Courfeyrac and Éponine were the closest things he might have to best friends, but even then, Courf and Combeferre were joined at the hip, and 'Ponine was so fiercely protective of her younger siblings.

Yes: Courf and Combeferre, Éponine Azelma and Gavroche, Jehan and Feuilly, the aromantic Bahourel, Musichetta Joly Bossuet—

And Enjolras.

And now, Grantaire.

So, instead of making some sort of flowery excuse, a thinly disguised social cue to leave, to politely get rid of Grantaire, he asked, with as much bravery he could muster:

"This time again tomorrow?"

Grantaire stared questioningly at him. "This time tomorrow… What?"

Oh, God. The nervous butterflies in his stomach and stutter came back in full force.

"I don't know, but whatever this is? Maybe? I mean, you don't have to, please don't feel like you have to, but I thought we could talk. I could… Keep you updated on what's happening at school!" He was fully conscious he was rambling, and was both screaming and cringing internally at himself. "Or, draw! We could draw. Well, you could draw, and I could play, if you didn't feel like talking. This probably sounds so lame, I'm sorry. I'll st—"

"Enjolras," Grantaire interrupted, "are you asking me on a date?"

Enjolras' eyes widened, and he gave a fake-sounding giggle. (Which, for the record, was _very_ unlike him. Maybe he was developing a new nervous tic, in addition to the hair tousling?)

"Well—I guess so! A, uh, Guy Date!"

There was a pause.

"Ah."

"...Yeah." He finished, lamely.

"Well," Grantaire began to stride towards the window. "I would love to."

That took Enjolras by surprise. "You—you would? I'm not… scaring you off?"

He smiled again, though it now seemed to come less easily than it had moments before.

"'Course not. You should know, I do expect a full report of all the going-ons at school. I'll bring my paints just in case it ends up being a terribly boring day, though. This same time?"

Enjolras checked his watch. "Yeah, this same time."

Grantaire nodded affirmation, and swung one leg out the window. "Alright then."

"Yeah," Enjolras said, for the second time that night.

"Goodnight, Enjolras."

"Goodnight, Grantaire."

They both stared at each other for a moment more, before Grantaire swung his other leg out the window, and climbed back into his own room. He faced Enjolras, and through two layers of glass, he waved. And closed his curtains.

Enjolras waved back, only a moment too late.

" **Enjolras, c'est quoi le mot Anglais pour 'mal intenionné?'" = "Enjolras, what's the English word for 'badly behaved?'"**

" **Je te verrais lundi prochaîne." = "I'll see you next Monday."**

" **Aurevoir, Monsieur le Directeur." = "Good day, Principal." Saying "Mx. le/la (position of authority)" is a popular French honorific, and shows high respect. It is often used for relationships like principal to student, or something similar.**

" **Il n'y a pas de problème avec cette proposition." = "There's no problem with that."**

" **Un, deux trois, quatre." = "One, two, three, four."**

 **Haha, remember when I thought I'd have one chapter up a week? Maybe not. What with school starting, my sport, and other commitments I have, weekly updates just aren't truly attainable for me, unfortunately. As much as I would love to have enough time… Anyway, you can definitely expect many future chapters, however! I really love this story, and I'm so happy I have a place I can put my work out to be read, instead of just keeping it all on my computer, unread.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **\- B**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey!**

 **Back again, with the third chapter. More author's notes at the end, but all I'll say is that this was definitely one of the more fun chapters to write.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **B**

Chapter Three

It was lunch time, which meant there were only three hours left of school. Enjolras didn't really care about that, but he did care that it meant there were only eight hours until he could see Grantaire

He sighed.

Today was Tuesday. It had been two days since the first window-climbing meeting—since the first "Guy Date," Enjolras thought with a cringe.

Last night, Monday night, Enjolras had spent pacing anxiously in his room until Grantaire had finally arrived. Thoughts of worry and self-doubt had flooded his mind—

 _What if he only said yes to be nice?_

 _Maybe it was all some kind of cruel joke arranged by Patron-Minette?_

 _If not, did he just scare him off himself?_

Until finally eight o'clock came, and, seven minutes later, so did Grantaire.

Enjolras had watched as Grantaire had thrown open his curtains, saw how he smiled when he saw Enjolras waiting for him. He had lifted up the thick glass, and called out cheerfully, "So, a good day, or should I bring my paints?"

His breath caught in his throat— _Grantaire actually wanted to see him_ —but that constant anxious knot in his stomach loosened. Enjolras loved the way his nerves burned away like kindling in a fire when Grantaire was around.

"The paints may be worthwhile, we're still causing some tsunami sized waves over there."

He saw Grantaire disappear for a moment, then reappear and he tossed an easel, a set of watercolours, and brushes through their open windows. They landed at Enjolras' feet with a thud.

The boy clambered in, face flushed pink with colour at the cold outside, curls falling in his face.

It was easy, he had decided, to forget it was winter when he felt like summer inside.

He chalked this new sappiness up to the power of new friends.

"Don't tell me they're so desperate for gossip that we're still the biggest story over there," Grantaire mock pleaded as he plunked down on the floor to set up his paints.

"I think we'll be the biggest gossip for a while yet. Montparnasse—he's the one that sold you the booze—" he filled in, "has been milking this for all it's worth. So far I've been asked if I was disarming a bomb you had on you, if you and I were fighting over a girl, and last but not least, if we were online lovers finally met."

Enjolras blushed a bit at that last one—he hadn't planned on telling him that—but Grantaire seemed to find the whole thing absolutely hilarious.

They had talked for so long—about who Enjolras was, about who Grantaire was, about their school and Grantaire's old ones, about the differences between America and France, about their art. And when they finally exhausted all that, they drew and they played.

This time was so much easier than the first time; he knew it was silly, but he felt as though he already knew this boy better. It seemed so needless, his nerves the other night. Grantaire was just so easy to talk to, that everything he was thinking would slip out of his mouth, filterless. Enjolras didn't even care. He knew he wouldn't be judged.

Right before Grantaire left that night, bordering on eleven o'clock, Enjolras asked if he could see what he had drawn. He complied, passing over the easel.

As Enjolras studied the painting, he could feel Grantaire's eyes on him—gauging his reaction?

Again, what this boy had created was beautiful. The colours were dark and intense, light and mild, their contrast strong and sure. This time, it wasn't of much at all—where last time his drawing had been of Enjolras' feet, this time it seemed to be the open lid of _Patrie._ Her open lid, and the window behind it.

When he was finally done, he handed the painting back over to it's artist.

"I really can't believe you're self-taught, it's just so…" He trailed off.

"Yeah, well, you're not too bad yourself," Grantaire said, nodding towards the piano. He had seemed embarrassed at the compliment, though. His cheeks and ears were tinged with pink, and he ducked his head, curls falling in his face.

He was smiling at the memory, and he could feel a faint flush creeping up from underneath his collar. Probably, he reasoned, from how hot this damned cafeteria was.

Suddenly, from across the overcrowded room, he heard an angry:

"Enjolras, you piece of _sh_ —"

" _Language_ , Courf," cut off a second, calmer voice.

Enjolras' head snapped up at the sound of his name. It was Courfeyrac and Combeferre, the former storming over to him, cafeteria food tray in hand, while the latter was tugging on his shirt, in a vain attempt to slow him down.

Combeferre smiled apologetically at him, while trying to balance a salad and apple on his tray.

Courfeyrac stormed over, almost slamming his food on Enjolras' table, Combeferre wincing at the outburst. Everytime he saw these two, he was reminded how true the saying "opposites attract" really was. Courf was always like this: big and loud and dramatic, holding the attention of all. Ferre, on the other hand, was mild and quiet, the cool water to douse Courf's fiery tempers.

But even Ferre couldn't stop Courf when he got like this; when he was directing his inferno of a - on someone.

And right now, that "someone" was Enjolras.

"'Yeah Courf, don't worry,'" Courf mimicked. "'I'll keep you updated on news about the cute new American boy I've just been suspended with.'''

Enjolras groaned as he remembered his broken promise. "God, I'm really sorry, I completely forgot." He saw his friend's glowering face and tried to add, "Time got away from me?"

"Enjy, you were on an out of school suspension! You had nothing but time, don't give me that bull."

"Oh," he smiled sheepishly. "Right. Sorry?"

"It's fine." He said, his scowl softening slightly. "You can make it up to me by giving us," he wrapped an arm around a food-engrossed Combeferre, "the _full_ story. Nothing omitted."

Enjolras picked up an apple from his tray, and munched on it as he filled them in on what happened: from the cringe-worthy walk back, to the heated fight from their windows, to finding Grantaire in his room.

When he got to the part where he had suggested a "Guy Date," even Combeferre shook his head sadly.

"Oh my _God_ Enjy, you can't take a hint, can you?" Cringed Courfeyrac.

Enjolras looked at them, bewildered and indignant. "What's that supposed to mean?!" Courf shrugged, and Ferre seemed suddenly quite interested in his salad.

At the end of his story, Courfeyrac had stood up.

"Enjolras, you may be the most clueless, dense genius I've ever met. Unfortunately though, I have a history test to study for, and can't hyper-analyze this situation just yet—but don't worry, cause that's gonna happen. Combeferre, coming?"

"Yeah, I'll be there. Start without me, I'll only be a second," his boyfriend murmured. A look passed between the two, one Enjolras couldn't interpret.

"Alright, I'll get the flashcards ready." Then he turned and mocked-whispered to Enjolras, "What fun!"

Combeferre chuckled softly as he watched Courfeyrac saunter out of the cafeteria. He closed his empty salad container and turned back to Enjolras.

"Enj," he started, gently, as though not to scare him off. "I just want you to know, based upon what you've told us today, I think this guy might be into you."

It took Enjolras a moment to digest what that meant. "You mean like…"

Combeferre nodded solemnly.

"W-What would have given you that impression?" He asked, a bit shocked.

Combeferre gave a sort of sigh. "I mean, the way he talks to you, the way he forgave you, and, God Enjy, you guys meet in secret at night."

"Okay, _twice_."

"You're planning on doing it again, aren't you? Besides, he thought you were asking him out on a date. A date, Enjolras."

"That's hardly feasible—"

"All I'm saying, Enjolras, is I want you to be aware. I don't want you to accidentally lead him on—being straight, you know."

Enjolras struggled for words. "Yeah, I'm straight. Of course. But I think you're wrong, Ferre. We're just two _platonically interested_ guys. There's nothing—nothing…"

"Gay?"

"...Yeah," he finished lamely.

"Alright, Enjolras. Just wanted to let you know." He stood up, throwing out his trash in the nearest bin. "I've got to go help Courf study. Text me later?"

"Yeah, I'll message you," he said, not realizing he was already alone again.

* * *

It was 7:34.

If Enjolras was buzzing at lunch time, he was practically vibrating with excitement by the time supper rolled around. His family, judging by Cosette's exasperated sighs and his father's deepening frown, was less than amused.

His father was at the head of the table, his sister on his left, and his own spot was on his right. Before him sat an almost untouched plate of spaghetti. His father had cooked it, so he knew it would be good, but he had too much nervous energy inside to be hungry.

He was bouncing his knee, rapping his knuckles on the table, humming some made up tune, and thinking. Those traitorous, anxious thoughts from earlier were back.

 _What if Grantaire won't show up tonight?_

 _What if he bored him?_

 _What if he was late to their meeting?_

 _What if—_

"Le bon _Dieu_ Enjolras, Cosette growled, slamming his hands against the table with the flat of her fork." I swear I'm going to tranquilize you."

He looked up in surprise. "What?" His sister did not frustrate easily, especially when she was still trying to butter him up to get Pontmercy's number.

His father shook his head. "Me donner la patience," he prayed, closing his eyes and tilting his head up. Looking back down at his son, he snapped out, "'What?' What do you mean, 'what?!'"

" _Papa_ ," his sister tried to interject.

" _Non_ , Cosette. You were suspended, Enjolras. For punching someone. I will always support you, you know this. But this…" He trailed off. "I don't understand it."

Enjolras stared down at his soup.

"I didn't raise a son like this. Not someone who hurts others, who's disrespectful to his professors or classmates or family. I honestly don't know what it is I've done to anger you so, but…" His brow furrowed as he regarded Enjolras with an indescribable look—anger, hurt, resentment, or maybe disappointment?

"This isn't _you_ , Enjolras."

Angrily, he looked up at the both of them. Their concerned, patronizing frowns only served to enrage him further. Why did they think they had the right to ask these sorts of things?

They didn't care about him; not really. They didn't know about his life. As far as they were concerned, Enjolras was still the popular boy at school. They didn't know about anything—not Les Amis or Patron-Minette, not Troye and Simon, and certainly not about the boy next door.

Not about Grantaire.

But yeah, the one time he messes up they decide to care.

"How would you even know who I am?" He asked, his hands clenched tightly by his sides.

" _Enjolras_ ," his father warned, but he ignored him. His sister opened her mouth, but he cut her off without a second thought.

He laughed bitterly. "Neither of you know me at all."

He pushed back his chair, looking at them with scorn, with contempt. He hoped they would understand what he meant—hoped they'd finally be looking. He turned to storm out of the room.

As he thundered up the stairs, he heard his sister call, "You're such un _connard_ , Enjy!"

* * *

When he got up to his room, he slammed the door behind him. Sliding down it to sit down on the floor, he ran a hand through his hair.

He gave himself time to cool off. He knew he was like this—get him angry, and he'd explode without disregard for who was getting caught in the blast.

His temper subdued, and he worked on massaging his hands out of the tight fists he'd pressed them into. Now that his more passionate emotions were dying off again, he could feel that familiar, normal knot return back to his stomach, the stutter come back to his tongue—his anxiety.

Sometimes, he just wished he could be angry more often; it was better than always being so damn anxious. Because, wasn't it such a joke? He was a leader—or, in his mind, a _revolutionary_ —who couldn't argue with his own family without scaring himself.

He didn't _really_ mean what he had said—he knew everything his father did for him and Cosette, and what she did for him, too. He was being an ingrate, an entitled grazer, a—

And then he saw Grantaire.

Sitting on his windowsill, one leg in the room, the other dangling out in the cold night air. His purple beanie that normally sat just far enough down to control his wild curls was now pulled to cover his now presumably cold ears.

And he was watching Enjolras.

"Bad day?" His mouth quirked up, but he could hear the genuine concern in his voice, could see the way his eyes had widened when he saw the state he was in.

Enjolras scrambled up, and cleared his throat hastily. "Uh, yeah. I guess. Fight with the family." He realized how awkward he was, raising his voice so Grantaire could hear him across the long room.

He closed the distance between them, offering his hand to Grantaire. He looked up at him, and clasped his hand in his. Arching an eyebrow, he swung his legs into the room.

Quickly, Enjolras dropped his hand. He was excited to see him again—to _finally_ see him again—but Combeferre's words from earlier echoed in his mind.

It's not that he would particularly _care_ if Grantaire was gay, but… He almost felt he should know.

And maybe that was homophobia—some deep, dark, _conditioned_ part of him he had desperately tried to teach himself to unlearn—that was still there.

But now that he thought of it, had he really tried to unlearn?

Of course, when Courfeyrac had come out to him, he had been thrilled. After all, his best friend had found someone he loved so much that he was willing to come out to his all friends, schoolmates, and family for—how could he not be happy for him?

And then when he had branched out and met more of Les Amis, he had been perfectly happy to hear of their diverse sexualities and genders as well. Musichetta, Bossuet, Joly, Feuilly, Jehan, Azelma and Éponine...

So why was this different?

 _It's because it's affecting you for the first time,_ a little voice in the back of his mind whispered. _Because you're seeing_ yourself _as queer for the first time_.

Not that he himself was. He was fairly sure he wasn't. It was just… There was the idea that someone potentially queer had a crush on _him_. The idea that _he_ was being seen as not straight. That was what was different, what made him uncomfortable.

If that made any sense.

He was certain, though, there would be only one way to figure this out.

He had to ask Grantaire himself.

It so wasn't any of his business, and he would be completely within his rights to not tell him, but… He was quite sure that was the only way to keep this awkwardness from getting between them—to have everything out there. Nothing secret.

Grantaire was probably straight, anyway. He was probably reading way too much into this, and he probably thought Enjolras was just being terribly rude.

"Grantaire," he began, carefully. He played with his hands as he spoke, twisting and looping and folding. "I just had a question for you—"

"God I'm such an idiot!" The boy suddenly chastised himself, dramatically rolling his eyes.

Enjolras blinked. "You are?"

"Of course!" He said, making his way back out the window. "Where are my supplies, right?"

"Uh…" Enjolras trailed off.

"I'll just be one second."

A few moments later, Grantaire was scrambling back in the window, looking a bit out of breath.

"I was thinking pastels tonight, if you don't mind."

"Well actually…"

Grantaire stopped and looked up in confusion. "No pastels?"

Enjolras shook his head. "No, no the pastels are fine. I just had a question for you."

Finally noticing Enjolras's somber mood, Grantaire put down his art supplies. He sat down on the sill, crossed his legs, and fixed his beanie a bit. He looked at Enjolras for a long while, almost as if to judge the gravity of the situation, but the scrutiny in his gaze made Enjolras squirm uncomfortably.

"Alright then," he finally said, "what is it you want to ask me?"

Maybe this _wasn't_ such a good idea.

"I mean—well, I just wanted to know," he fumbled.

 _Rap rap rap._

Three sharp knocks on the door, followed by a shrill voice he knew his sister only used when she was very cross with someone.

"Enjolras, open the _goddamn_ door!"

His eyes widened, and he could see Grantaire's do the same.

"You mean your family's still here?" He hissed.

"Yours isn't?" Enjolras asked defensively. "You've gotta hide!"

He turned to the window, but Enjolras grabbed his wrist. "No time!"

" _Enjolras_!" His sister warned.

He motioned wildly for Grantaire to hide behind the bed. Shooting one last look at Enjolras, he dove behind it.

The door flew open just a second late, and Enjolras blew out an inward sigh of relief.

There, in the doorframe, stood Cosette, in all her fluffy, pink, highheeled glory. She took two steps forward, and shut the door firmly behind her.

"You, dear brother, have been a _complete—_."

In that moment, Enjolras was glad Grantaire couldn't understand French.

"What do you want, Cosette?" He asked, eyes flicking down to where Grantaire was hidden.

She laughed. "Please, Enjolras. 'How would either of you know who I am'?! How about: because we're your family!"

He looked down, but couldn't meet Grantaire's gaze.

"Yeah, that's right," she said. "Literally your only family. You think Papa deserves that Deserves what you said to him down there?"

"I didn't mean—" He mumbled.

"Yeah, you did. You might regret it now, but I know you meant every word you said."

She took a few more steps towards him, and he was struck again by how confidently and sure she was, how she seemed so beyond her young years. "I know we aren't the closest family, Enjy. But we're both here for you."

"You obviously are going through some tough times right now, and I guess I can understand that. It's why I've been trying to give you a bit more space lately."

He looked up at her, eyes hardening again. "And Papa?"

She thought about it, then carefully said, "You know Papa has a hard time with… things, Enjolras. You can't blame him for that."

He did know. He knew that, in those years before his adoption, Jean had become fiercely protective of Cosette. So much so that when Enjolras was introduced to their family, he's had a very difficult time adjusting to his presence.

Neither of them spoke of what had happened back then; all he knew was that Cosette was the reason their father had gone back to school to become a social worker in child services.

Maybe that was why Enjolras had always felt so detached from his family—he loved them, and he knew he was loved, but it would never be _as much_. It was Cosette, Jean and Enjolras, as an afterthought.

"Of course not," he muttered.

Cosette and their father and Combeferre and Courfeyrac and Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta and and and. This list went on.

Sure, he might be the leader, the guide. But he was leading people who already lead each other. As much as it hurt to admit it, none of them needed him as much as he needed them.

Least of all Jean and Cosette.

"Hey," his sister said. "I know what you're thinking, and that's not what I meant."

He just looked away.

She searched his face for a recognizable emotion, but found nothing as she turned on her heel. "Whatever. Sulk all you like. You do owe him an apology, though Enjy."

She was almost at the door when he saw her bend down to pick something up.

"I guess we really don't know anything about you, E. How long have you been doing art?" She asked, flipping a page.

 _Merde_.

It was Grantaire's sketchbook. And Cosette was looking through it.

"This is actually really good. Damn," she whistled.

A frantic sounding bump came from underneath the bed.

"Don't look—that's not yours, I mean—just stop—" he stuttered out.

She turned back to him, and he saw her eyes soften a bit. "Yeah, sorry. You're right. It's, pretty good though." She blew some hair out of her face. "A bit self-obsessed, but still good."

He snatched it from her hands, and she backed off.

"Don't forget that apology, Enjolras," she called to him, already gone.

Enjolras checked the hallway and closed the door, but still they waited a moment before emerging—listening until the click of Cosette's shoes were all but gone.

Grantaire stood up, brushing off his pants, and held out his hand.

"My sketchbook," he said, not meeting his eyes.

"R-right," he stammered, shoving the book into his arms with just a bit more force than necessary.

They both sort of stood there—Enjolras hating the way awkwardness and unsure words were slowly seeping back into their conversation.

"Listen," Grantaire sighed, finally matching his gaze again. "Tonight was a just a bit… I'll just need a bit of time, okay?"

Enjolras nodded his head vigorously, hoping desperately he didn't look as pathetic as he felt.

"You don't want to stay to paint, or play?" He asked, though already knowing the answer. To his embarrassment, he could feel his voice thickening.

Grantaire shook his head, looking back at the window. Silent,

"Yeah, that's fine—that's cool." He tried to say, as cheerfully as he could. "I'll see you tomorrow at school, then?"

Grantaire smiled a bit at that. "Yeah. See you tomorrow, Enjolras."

He made his way to the window again, for the fourth time that night. In his hands he clutched that sketchbook, and Enjolras assumed the pastels were still strewn somewhere in his room. He didn't tell him that, though.

Enjolras followed him to the sil, hands preparing to close the window behind Grantaire's lanky body.

But then they were face to face again, this time with the cold outside air between them. Grantaire's arms mimicked his own when he dropped them at his sides. They were silent for a moment—just studying each other in a rare moment of complete motionlessness.

Enjolras didn't know why they were just staying here like this—Grantaire said he'd wanted to go, and Enjolras still had this humiliating lump in his throat, and _damn_ it was _cold_ …

Finally, Grantaire seemed to give up. He tilted his head back and murmured something with closed eyes that Enjolras couldn't hear, before he was leaning a bit farther out the window. He braced himself on his forearms, and he couldn't help but study the muscle, the length of which was dotted with flecks of paint and charcoal.

"What was it you wanted to ask me, Enjolras?" Grantaire asked, softly. Neither of them could face the other squarely.

Enjolras's heart sped up. He couldn't tell him the truth _now_ , could he?

"It was—it was nothing," he mumbled looking away quickly.

"Enjolras."

"I wanted—" he shoved the window farther up. "I just wanted to know if you…"

He nodded.

"If you were... gay."

At last, Grantaire looked at him. And looked at him. And looked at him. And Enjolras regretted ever opening his mouth.

Maybe it was hours, maybe minutes, maybe mere seconds, of silence. And then,

" _Enjolras_ ," Grantaire whispered.

He couldn't even meet his eyes. How had he ever thought asking him something like that was okay? It was none of his business, he had no right. And now Grantaire probably thought he was horrible and homophobic and he probably never wanted to talk to him again and hated his guts and—

Grantaire's hand reached out and caught Enjolras's chin, meeting his gaze with equal parts determination and exasperation in his dark brown eyes. His ever present hint of a smile was gone now, replaced with a kind of somberness Enjolras had never seen.

Grantaire's thumb grazed down the side of his head until both hands reached his collar, their faces drifting oh-so dangerously closer together. Enjolras was perfectly still, feeling as though he couldn't breath.

Grantaire looked him steadily in his eyes, pulling him ever closer by his collar. His heart hammered wildly in his chest.

 _What was happening?!_

Their lips danced just outside of each other's, teasing the other with their labored breathes. "Yes?" Grantaire asked him, gruffly.

Enjolras knew exactly what he wanted to know. It took a moment for him to form the thought—to remember how to speak. Finally,

" _Yes_ ," Enjolras breathed.

As soon as the words left his lips, Grantaire's mouth crashed down on his. His lips were hot and warm, but his skin was cold, and the way he was pulling Enjolras against the windowsill hurt, but he didn't care.

Because Grantaire was kissing him.

And he was kissing Grantaire back.

Enjolras had never kissed anyone before, but the way his head tilted and shifted, the way his hands traveled to lose themselves in the boy's curls and across the expanse of his strong shoulders, the way Grantaire kept pulling them closer and closer together, as if afraid of ever letting him go—it felt natural. It felt _right_.

Grantaire let out a sound that sounded like a mixture of a relieved laugh and a soft moan, and Enjolras gripped his hair tighter in return.

Enjolras could feel the energy of the kiss in the same way he could feel the emotions of his piano—in the way his whole body seemed to sing in harmony, how his heart beat faster, how the rest of the world simply seemed to melt away, because nothing— _nothing_ —had ever been this important.

He had never felt more alive in his life.

This was what people write novels and plays; what inspired thousands upon thousands of poems and songs. _This_.

He could _feel_ it, just under his skin. The wild thoughts, the hundreds of beats and strokes and notes—an entire composition lay just beneath the surface.

 _This_ was what Enjolras could compose. Something impossible to define by words, something both so simple and infinitely intricate.

 _This_.

 **Alrightly, there was chapter three! The kiss was honestly so much fun the write, (shoutout to the 2006 OBC of Spring Awakening for making my playlist way more relevant.)**

 **Oh, thanks too to some people I know in the /real world/ for the hypermotivation. (Read: "is it updated?") You know who you are.**

 **See you soon!**

 **\- B**


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

The next morning, Enjolras woke to a knock on his window.

Groaning, he rolled out of bed. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and mussed his hair. What time was it? He stumbled over to the window, and opened it with a yawn.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," came an amused voice.

And suddenly, Enjolras wasn't so tired anymore.

 _Grantaire_.

"G-good morning to you too." Enjolras cringed at his stutter, but Grantaire only smiled wider.

There was no reason for him to be nervous around this boy. For God's sake, he had kissed him last night—

 _Oh._

Right. That was what had ended their night; Enjolras and Grantaire had kissed. Suddenly, all of Combeferre's advice, all of Courfeyrac's knowing smiles came back to him, because they had _known_. Somehow, before he himself had known, they had figured out who he was.

 _No_.

A rush of emotions as strong as a wave surged through Enjolras. Confusion, disgust, happiness? No, this was ridiculous. Enjolras wasn't—he wasn't gay. Maybe this was one of those phases that teenagers went through, and this was Enjolras's newest, subconscious way of rebelling. If anything, he _might_ be bi-curious. _Maybe_.

But then, he didn't think kissing a boy would've felt that good if he wasn't at least a little bit gay.

 _Ugh._

It was too early to think about this, he decided. And besides, he had school. Or, rather, _they_ had school. Because now Grantaire was coming back to school.

Right.

"Grantaire?" He asked him.

"Mm?"

"I just wanted to kind of prepare you for something, before we get back to school."

He laughed. "I know, Enjolras. They think I planted a bomb, or tried to run, or that we're lovers, right?" He shrugged it off lightly, but then grinned. "Actually, that last one—"

Enjolras cut him off, and tried to ignore the way his heart sped up at his comment. "No, it's not that. I told a couple of my friends about you, you know, when we first met."

"So, less than a week ago," he smiled.

"Yeah," Enjolras continued, feeling a flush creep up his neck. "And some of them are really excited to meet you."

Grantaire nodded. "Will I get to meet them?"

"Oh of course, if you want to!" He said. "That's not what I meant, though. My friends can be very… enthusiastic—passionate, even— at times." He paused, searching for the right words. "I just don't want them to scare you away."

The boy laughed, and its heartiness was contagious. "Enjolras, I met you on my first day of school in the men's washroom, because you wanted to fight me for underage drinking. I'm used to passionate."

He ran a hand through his blonde curls, sheepishly. "I suppose. Don't say I didn't warn you, though, 'New Kid.'"

They both laughed a bit at that. Was it really only days ago that that was all Grantaire had been to Enjolras—a nickname?

He began to slide back through his window. "I'd better get ready," he told him, preparing to shut the window.

"Mm, me too," Grantaire agreed.

Neither of them moved, though.

Grantaire let out a sort of embarrassed-sounding laugh, and tousled his hair. Was he picking up Enjolras's own nervous tics?

"God damn—Enjolras, can I kiss you again?"

He was sure his eyes widened a million times their normal size, but quickly stammered out, "Yeah—yes! Yes you can. Actually, please—"

Grantaire closed the distance between them, putting one hand on Enjolras's cheek as he kissed him.

Though their situation was similar to the last night's, their kiss couldn't have been more different. Last time, it had been hard and rough—pure, unchecked passion. This time, it was sweet and syrupy—and God, he hoped and prayed that every time he kissed someone it would feel this nice.

When they broke apart, this time, neither of them could keep their wide smiles off their faces.

"Alright," Grantaire smiled, "we probably should go."

* * *

Enjolras was fairly certain he had never gotten ready for school that quickly in his entire academic career—and that included the time his sister had threatened to take _France's Got Talent_ off the DVR if he wasn't out of the shower in four minutes.

He pulled on jeans, a gray t-shirt, a jacket and his sneakers, sure he had put on at least _one_ of his items of clothing on inside out. He grabbed a breakfast bar, and a piece of his sister's toast, ignoring her cry of protest, and kissed both she and their father quickly on the cheek before running out the door without so much as an "à ce soir!"

It wasn't until he was halfway out the door before he remembered he was supposed to be mad at them.

When he burst out of the front door, breathless and still trying to stuff his foot in his left sneaker, Grantaire was already sitting on his porch, calmly eating a banana and regarding him with an air of amusement.

He didn't want to think about his family right now. He just wanted to think about this—about now. About Grantaire.

About his… _boyfriend_?

"Excited?" Grantaire quirked, pushing himself off the stairs.

Letting the thoughts of everything else slide from his mind, Enjolras let out a half laugh, and they were off.

He'd spent some time considering this last night after Grantaire had left. Late in the night, his heart pounded hard as he'd gazed up at his ceiling, unable to wipe the ridiculous grin off his face.

And then he'd realized (with an actual, audible laugh,) the amount of time he'd be spending with Grantaire. Assuming he'd walk to school as well as from school, that was almost forty minutes everyday, _twice a day_. On top of the other time they were going to be together during the actual school time, _and_ the time they would be together after school.

So yes, Enjolras was excited.

 _And yet…_ whispered a small, traitorous voice in his ear.

Even through all his happiness, all his giddiness at just the sheer thought of being with this boy, he still had that ever persistent nagging voice in the back of his head. The one that knotted his stomach and ran a shaking hand through his hair and made his voice tremble and break in front of crowds.

Enjolras knew that they _were_ going to be spending a lot of time together. And it made his voice wonder… Because, of everything they had spoken about, they _still_ hadn't talked about the reason they had met.

They still hadn't talked about the booze in the boy's washroom. And Enjolras really, _really_ didn't know how to feel about that.

Because, on the one hand, why should he even care about what Grantaire did? It wasn't his business, and really, he could do what he wanted. But on the other, despite anything and everything he felt for this boy—Enjolras refused to give in on his stance of drinking. _Especially_ underage drinking.

Enjolras felt this overwhelming _thing_ take over him whenever he thought of Grantaire drinking. Maybe it was because he had tried so hard for so long to keep Patron-Minette under control. Maybe it was because he was unwilling to see the school his little sister would be attending filled with leering, drunken teenagers wide smirks and sour breath; with money shoved into palms and mandatory locker searches from tired teachers and principals.

Or maybe it terrified Enjolras to think about Grantaire as one of the he saw around town. He had only been here less than a month now, so he just didn't _know_. He couldn't.

He didn't _see_ how the kids who got mixed up with the wrong crowd in high school were treated after graduation. He didn't know that almost five girls dropped out of school _yearly_ because of teen pregnancy. He didn't see the drunkards, the poor, the homeless—the people denied opportunities for ridiculous _nothings_ , for stupid mistakes they'd made as teenagers.

He didn't see how everyone came into this town, but no one came out. Not unless you made a certain amount of money, anyway, and lived there because you appreciated the aesthetic of rolling hills and quiet, if quaint, suburbs. Like his adopted father, for example.

And he would never, ever see the way addiction could tear a family apart—leaving its child beaten and bloody and at some point, removed. Like _him_ , for example.

That was what had happened to his biological family, apparently. His father was a drunk, his mother a heroin addict. Mix that with old French conservative values, and you get one unwanted child you can beat up whenever you want—free of charge!

He was taken away, his mother was sent to a rehab, and his father was sent to jail. That was _his_ happily ever after.

The thought of Grantaire as one of them, as another one of the miserable men sitting on battered old seats at bars and pubs, increasing their tabs as they motioned for one more, or the sunken eyes of the drug addicts who'd sold everything they had to afford another hit… The list went on.

The thought of Grantaire's eyes, blank, devoid of that sparkle, because of this town.

He couldn't stand it.

That was why Enjolras, in that moment, stopped them both, jerking Grantaire to a halt as he grabbed him by his schoolbag.

"What are you—" Grantaire asked, eyes wide, but smiling.

Enjolras pulled them both behind the relative security of a tree on the side of the road, into the long shadow its lanky branches cast. He hoped it would be away from the prying eyes of the nosy inhabitants of the suburban houses lining the street who were, in all likelihood, checking the streets for any trace of the New Kid Who Got Himself Suspended On The First Day—just as everyone else around here who had heard the gossip would be.

Small towns, right?

He leaned against the tree as he tried as quickly as possible to choose his words, hoping to appear calm to the now clearly alarmed Grantaire—despite the anxiety coursing through him.

"Enjolras—" Grantaire tried to say.

"No, Grantaire, listen," he interrupted, looking up to meet the taller boy's eyes. "I want to clear something up."

Though looking apprehensive, and a tad bit worried, he nodded.

"Do you plan to drink at school, still? Or—or at all?"

Grantaire cast his gaze downwards. His dark curls spilled across his face, and Enjolras had to restrain himself from pushing them from his eyes.

"It's just…" Enjolras ran a hand through his hair, "you know how I feel about it, and I don't want to force you to do anything, or not do anything, because it makes me uncomfortable, but—"

Suddenly, Grantaire's head shot up. _What if he's offended? What if he'd never, ever give up drinkin? Why am I such a loser? What if_ — "Enjolras, if something makes you uncomfortable, I'll stop. Simple as that."

He tried to read the curly haired boy's reaction, but couldn't make out what that set expression meant. "It's really not my place though…" _and you hardly even know me_ , he finished mentally.

" _E_ ," Grantaire said, holding eye contact, "it matters to me, if it matters to you. And if my drinking bothers you, I can give it up."

It stirred something inside of him, because it all seemed a bit too easy. (Also, because no one had ever called him "E" before, and he kind of liked it.) Why had Grantaire even turned to alcohol in the first place? How had he known to go to Patron-Minette that first day, anyway? But Enjolras pushed those thoughts down—and he couldn't help the smile that crept up on his face.

"Really?"

Grantaire laughed. "Of course. And besides," he added, leaning forwards a bit, "I _think_ I'd rather have you than alcohol."

Enjolras cocked his head. _Rather have me?' What's that supposed to mea_ —

But he didn't even have time to finish his thought before Grantaire was upon him. His strong arms wrapped themselves around Enjolras's back, pulling him closer, as the boy's lips gently pressed down on his own.

He froze immediately—and then he laughed.

Laughed from his stomach, letting his audible happiness bubble in his throat and fly out to meet this boy's lips. Pretty and light and carefree—synonyms that had never been used anywhere near Enjolras before.

Quickly recovering from the shock, Enjolras smiled into the kiss, and he could feel Grantaire do the same back. It was sweet and slow—all Enjolras could see in his mind's eye was honey, dripping thickly from a jar. Closer to this morning's kiss, than the night before's.

(Enjolras didn't know when he had turned into a kind of person to have enough experience in kissing to be able to compare two, but he couldn't say he minded it.)

But after a moment of that honey-sweet kissing, he decided to try something, just because he could. If his mind could smile, in that moment would've had a vicious little smirk on its figurative face.

Enjolras pushed into the other boy, allowing himself some of the ferocity that he would use for a Chopin Étude, instead of this Debussy suite. He shoved himself into him, shaping his body to press further against Grantaire's.

And apparently, Grantaire liked that.

The boy's response was immediate—he pushed back harder, and slid his arms just the slightest bit lower. In between short gasps for air, Enjolras could feel Grantaire smirk against his own lips.

Enjolras knew he didn't have much experience with stuff like this. No, not much—he had _no_ experience with this, with girls or boys. None. But he had a vague idea on what to do, thanks to prime time tv and the occasional romance novel he picked up. And if Grantaire had liked when Enjolras had so roughly shoved him moments before…

Just to see what he'd do, Enjolras pushed forwards and ground himself lightly against the boy's taller frame, letting a soft sound he was sure sounded ridiculous escape his lips.

Mid kiss, Grantaire paused, his breathing ragged. And a feeling a dread began to seep into Enjolras, wondering immediately if he had done something horribly wrong.

"God, I'm sor—"

And then, all at once, Grantaire flew into motion. "Don't you dare."

Grantaire's arms tightened around Enjolras's hips, fingers grasping at any bits of clothing he could find to just _pull him closer_. He shoved their entangled bodies into the tree, Enjolras's back hitting the trunk roughly. He gasped, and a sort of a growl rippled out from Grantaire's throat.

Grantaire's kissing became more intense—and, God, _biting_ —all the while pulling back to ask if this was okay, if he was comfortable with that, if he could try something. Enjolras, to his own genuine surprise, couldn't have loved it more. In fact, when Grantaire moved his fervent ministrations from his surely swollen lips down to his jaw, planting tiny kisses along there as he worked his way further and further up, Enjolras even threw back his head.

And right then, right there, his eyes closed, mouth opened in a small "o," and his head tilted back in nothing short of ecstasy while a beautiful boy with curly hair and a purple beanie kissed him like it was the last time they'd ever get to kiss in the world, Enjolras wondered how he had never known before just how perfectly _queer_ he was.

God help him, he truly couldn't contain the loud, undiluted moan that fell from his lips as that same boy gently tugged on his earlobe with his teeth.

They both slowly untangled themselves, breathing heavily. Grantaire laughed playfully at Enjolras, assessing approvingly as he looked him up and down.

"Damn," he grinned, in a smile that reminded him so much like the one Courfeyrac wore when he finally got a rise out of Combeferre.

Enjolras smiled back, flushed and slightly embarrassed. "Sorry. I'm not very…"

"No—God, don't apologize. That was... " Grantaire trailed off, leaving Enjolras to wonder exactly _what_ that experience had been.

They regarded each other a moment longer before Enjolras pushed off the tree, picking up his schoolbag from when it had slid off his shoulders. "Alright?"

He smirked. "Yeah, it was alright." He paused as they began to walk again. "I am curious though. Have you ever done anything like that before?"

"You mean…" They shielded their eyes from the sudden sun after the dark of the tree.

"With another guy, yeah," he said, peering down at him.

Enjolras thought about how to answer his question. "No," he shook his head.

Grantaire nodded, and he continued.

"I actually didn't know I was… Well, whatever I am, until really recently. So, no one knows. Except for you, of course."

"Wait—how recently?" Grantaire asked, a curious glint in his smiling eyes.

Enjolras could feel that flush creep higher up his neck. "About—about a week ago, really."

"So wait," he smirked. "Are you saying I made you question your sexuality?"

"Oh, shut up," Enjolras shoved him, his face reflecting the other's anyway..

Grantaire deftly sidestepped his hands. "E, I hope you know; that's hot as _hell_."

Enjolras ducked his head and fixed his hair, but grinned the rest of the walk to school.

* * *

They weren't quite as late as Enjolras had expected them to be, considering the whole tree-makeout fiasco, but they were still much too tardy for his liking.

"So, we'll need to see Mr. Louis-Phillipe first, to get the work we've missed, then I guess we're off to class."

Grantaire laughed—though, Enjolras noted, a distinctly different laugh from the ones he was used to hearing bounce off his bedroom's walls.

"I mean, I couldn't have missed too much. I've been to all of two classes, anyway."

"Oh," Enjolras stammered, "right. Well, I guess I'll see you at lunch, then? You, me, Courf and Combeferre have the same lunch period. Oh, and don't forget, there's the—"

"Debate club meeting today after school, where I'll be meeting your friends for the first time. I'll remember, E."

There was that E again. "Well, you'll be meeting the worst of them before the rest, so it won't be too bad. Or," he frowned, "it shouldn't be."

Grantaire laughed again, sounding more familiar than its predecessor. "I'm sure I'll be fine. See you at lunch."

"Right," he said. "See you at lunch."

* * *

To his great surprise, Enjolras's school morning had passed with little incident. He attended science first period, followed by a double block of French—which normally would have made him ecstatic, as they were two of his favourite classes, but he just couldn't shake that feeling of anticipation.

The kind of feeling that followed him whenever anything would pop up, whether it be a presentation in class, a debate club meeting, or just knowing he had to call someone on the phone later that day. He hated it—hated the way it would fill his fingers with the longing to stretch across his piano but had to settle for uselessly running through his curls, the way his voice would crumble and break when he spoke his thoughts aloud—but he knew he couldn't change it. It was a part of him, now, and he had accepted it. As long as he talked to people about it, as long as he didn't let those kinds of feelings eat him from the inside out, he was fine.

Except, he usually _did_ let them eat him from the inside out.

Well, with the exception of the past little while. (Read: since he had met Grantaire.) Because, honestly? _He_ didn't look at him with a barely contained exasperated sigh when he talked to him, like his father had, and _he_ didn't smirk at or roll his eyes like his sister did, and _he_ didn't offer advice applicable only to those with tiny problems in big lives, like Courf.

How had someone he had met a mere week ago already altered his life so irreversibly, so irrevocably? So intensely?

Maybe it was because of Enjolras; maybe it was because he was pathetic, clingy, willing to latching onto the very first person who showed any emotions (whether they be positive or negative) towards him.

And while all that might be true, he didn't think it was the reason for… For _whatever_ they were.

And as the bell signaling the end of class rang, Enjolras reflected just how important Grantaire must be to him for him to smile as he rushed out of French class.

Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.

* * *

Lunch tray in hand, Enjolras surveyed the bustling cafeteria. He's told Grantaire he'd meet him _here_ , hadn't he?

He thought he did. He was pretty sure he did.

Suddenly, and with no shortage of drama, the large double doors connecting the cafeteria to the rest of the school flew open. They swung loudly against the walls, but it only added to the din of the congregation of hungry students.

Enjolras turned hopefully to the source—was it Grantaire?—but found Courfeyrac, instead. The boy strode into the cafeteria with his usual swagger, an enormous grin stretching from one ear to the other.

"Enjy!" he called gleefully to a mortified Enjolras across the room. "I was promised a cute American boy, and I fully intend to collect."

Enjolras rushed over to his friend, a bright red blush blooming across his neck and face. "Would it _kill_ you to be _discreet_ , Courfeyrac?" he hissed.

He looked up at the ceiling and pretended to think about the rhetorical question. "Yeah, probably."

Enjolras rolled his eyes. "Vous allez me tuer. Peut-être même avant _lui_."

They walked together to their regular table. "Enjolras, _tu_ connais que _je_ connais le Français, aussi. C'est n'est pas que toi, non plus."

Enjolras sighed as they sat down. "Est-ce que c'était jamais?"

Courfeyrac just smirked. "Vous savez que c'était—et pour beaucoup trops long. Okay, English again. I'm trying to get better, you know." He picked up his food, which Enjolras regarded with a disapproving glance—it was almost certainly not up to Combeferre's health standards.

"Right. How's that going, anyway?"

"It's going good—Ferre's a great teacher, you know, and I'm learning lots. You know, things like how to conjugate in past-tense how to tell the difference between 'their,' 'they're,' and 'there,' and how to tell when someone's trying to change the subject."

Enjolras gave a defeated smile. "You picked up on that?"

"Well, it's not like you were being _discreet_ ," he mimicked.

They laughed, even as Enjolras made to shove him. "Whatever."

"But, speaking of," he said, checking his phone, "where is he? And Grantaire, too."

"Oooh, Enjy," he teased, "missing your cute boyfriend?"

Enjolras started to protest, when the doors swung open—for the second notable time that day.

The expression that spread over Courf's face then was almost comical. Enjolras probably would've laughed at him, if he hadn't done the same thing when he turned to see what he was gawking at.

There were the two missing boys, Combeferre and Grantaire entering the cafeteria side by side. And okay, the way the light was hitting Grantaire's hair _might_ have taken Enjolras's breath away, and he _might_ have wanted nothing more than to find some dark and undisturbed corner and—

No. _No, Enjolras, get a grip._ He was not about to be that kid—the one who couldn't keep his hands off his boyfriend friend mere days after they had met.

That didn't make Grantaire any less gorgeous, though, he realized with a grimace.

As the two made it way over to their table, Enjolras realized with a start that this was the part he was supposed to be nervous about. The meeting of his friends. But now that it was here, he wasn't anything but ready. Of course he wanted these people to meet; they were some of the most important people in his life.

 _This_ was what he had been stressing about all day?

The boys sat down—Grantaire sliding into the seat next to him easily, Combeferre across the table with a bit more shuffling and maneuvering, thanks to the small mountain of textbooks he carried in his arms.

They greeted each other in a chorus of jumbled "hey!"s and "how are you?"s and "God I'm so tired"s. Or maybe that last one was just Courfeyrac.

"Combeferre, Courfeyrac, I think you guys may have met, but this is Grantaire," Enjolras introduced. Though he was eager for his friends to meet, he still cast his gaze down, still mumbles his words.

Courfeyrac quirked his eyebrows in greeting, and Combeferre smiled warmly, pushing up his glasses. "Yeah, we take English with Mr. Hugo together." Then, addressing Grantaire, "I'm 'Ferre."

Grantaire nodded. "I'm Grantaire—or, maybe better known as the American Kid?"

"They've got you pegged already?" Courf asked. "It took them almost a full week before we started calling Enjolras 'Revolution.'"

Grantaire raised a brow. "'Revolution?'" he mouthed.

Enjolras narrowed his eyes playfully and mouthed back "shut up."

The four of them laughed amiably, and with the tension now broken, they opened up their lunches to eat. Eating and chatting easily, like old friends already, Courfeyrac and Combeferre talked to Grantaire about what he should expect from their school; about which teachers to suck up to and which to be more casual with. Although Courf's English was admittedly fairly impressive for someone who had only been studying it for a couple months, Combeferre stopped occasionally to translate for him.

Beneath the table, Grantaire grabbed his hand and smoothed small circles on his palm. They looked at each other, and through his peripheral vision he could see his two friends exchange knowing smiles.

 **Vous allez me tuer. Peut-etre meme avant** ** _lui_** **= You're going to kill me. Maybe even before** ** _him_** **.**

 **Enjolras,** ** _tu_** **connais que** ** _je_** **connais le Français, aussi. C'est n'est pas que toi, non plus. = Enjolras,** ** _you_** **know that** ** _I_** **know French, too. It isn't just you anymore.**

 **Est-ce que c'était j'amais? = Was it ever?**

 **Vous savez que c'etait, et pour beaucoup trops long = You know that it was, and for much too long, too.**

 **Wow wow wow, I haven't updated in twelve years. So sorry! Life's been incredible lately, between things happening at school, my sport, at home, and writing other projects, I've sort of forgotten about this! I'm back to regular updates now, though, (i.e at least the first week of every month!) Much love to everyone who's stuck around through all this, I so appreciate your patience.**

 **Happy reading, friends!**

 **\- B**


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